


Slowly, Surely

by yekoc



Series: Post Script [4]
Category: Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: College, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, tumblr prompt fills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:14:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekoc/pseuds/yekoc
Summary: Short prompt fills in the Post Script verse. Most can be read without reading that (slight AU) story first, if you'd prefer! Will update here as I write them.Ratings vary!





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

> You can find these as they're written, along with other small Post Script-verse bonus content, on my [tumblr](http://www.yekoc.tumblr.com).

It’s not until they’re naked that Simon realizes this freaks him out a lot more than doing it the other way. When he did it the first time–- _bottoming_ , he thinks, even though the specificity of the term still feels kind of weird and porny–-it had been exciting, more than anything else. He’d known he wanted it ever since that first searing-hot vision of Bram’s fingers in him, the morning after prom. It was like that opened up this box in his head and inside the box was,  _yes, that works for me_. He’s asked Bram for it, over and over, in the last few months–for his fingers, and then his dick, because he was so sure. 

He’d been right, too, about how much he was going to like it. Having Bram inside him, any part of him, makes Simon feel insane in the best possible way, like there’s just too much feeling for him to even function. He gets overwhelmed and noisy and hot, and Bram loves that, and it just–-it really works, for both of them. 

But trying  _new_ things with Bram is also so good, and this is another new thing to try–-and they’d both been curious. Simon flashes back to a few weeks ago, sweaty and boneless. Bram’s face tucked into Simon’s neck, talking into the skin there. 

“Will you do this, for me, sometime?” Bram had asked, and Simon felt the same thrill he always does when he can say  _yes_ to Bram, and mean it.

And he had meant it–he does mean it. It’s just that it feels like a lot of responsibility, all of a sudden, as he looks down at Bram on the bed, laid out and flushed and so, so beautiful. Bram is something  _precious_ , as crazy and sappy as that sounds. Simon wants to make this good for him, and he doesn’t really know how, or what–-he doesn’t do a lot of thinking, when he’s on the other end of this. There’s no room for analysis when he’s feeling like that. 

“Are you freaking out?” Bram asks him, and when Simon looks at him he’s biting his lip like he’s trying not to smile, and something unknots inside of him. It’s Bram. It’s going to be okay.

“Shut up,” Simon says, loving him. “You just set a high standard, okay? I just–-”

He looks at the length of Bram’s body again, and trails off. 

“Here,” Bram says, and twines his fingers with Simon’s lube-y ones. “I’ve tried this a little, it’s okay, look–” and he’s slipping a finger into himself, letting out a small breath. Simon feels a spike of heat all down his spine. Any new context for Bram’s fingers is good, and this one is-– _revelatory,_ is the vocab word that springs to mind.

Still, he can’t just sit here turned on and staring, like he’s totally useless. “C’mon,” he says, “let me,” and then he’s stroking over where Bram’s finger is still inside him, until Bram makes a small noise and says, “yeah, come on,” and then he’s in the tight heat of Bram, hands caught together.

“Is it-–” Simon asks, and Bram nods. 

“Let me,” Simon says again, and when Bram moves his hand away Simon eases another finger into him, watches Bram breathe through it, hands loose beside him now on the sheets. He’s careful and slow and trying so hard not to tremble, and he watches as Bram’s face eases from tense to wanting. 

“Yeah,” Bram says, and the word shakes a little. “Simon, now, please-–”

It’s kind of hard to get the condom open when his hands are all slippery, but he manages, and Bram doesn’t laugh, just watches him in a way that makes Simon ache and hurry. 

“Oh,” Bram says, softly, when Simon presses into him, and then he says it again, “ _oh_ ,” an exhale that Simon wants to capture, savor, keep. Simon can’t think too hard about how this feels or it’ll be over, right now, because it’s Bram and he’s inside him and they’re pressed together, his arms and Bram’s thighs, the muscle of them.

“Can I–-” Simon asks, because, god, he wants to  _move_ , to bury himself in Bram, but he can’t unless Bram wants-–unless this is–-

Bram nods, and his “yes” is sweetly, hotly rough, and Simon believes him. Bram, who’s never done anything but tell Simon how he feels, what he wants, how much he’s willing to give, in emails and in poems and in person. Simon trusts him.

“Bram–-” he hears himself say, again and again, and who knew he’d be the one making noise this way, too, but he can’t stop saying it. Bram’s eyes are open, looking at him, and Simon can’t look away–the way his face twitches, how his mouth falls open and his breath comes hot and fast.

When Bram brings a hand up and traces over Simon’s cheek, thumbs at his mouth, it’s like something that was building in Simon bursts. He needs more, suddenly, more of Bram. As much as he can get. He can feel himself speeding up, chasing it, and he tries to ask Bram if it’s okay, if he’s good, but he can barely speak.

It must be enough, though, because Bram’s saying “yes,  _Simon,_ ” and then he’s kissing Simon, hands in his hair, like he’s trying to pull Simon even further into him. The sweet tug of it is enough to send Simon tumbling over the edge, and he comes stuttering and gasping, hands sweaty and sliding on Bram’s hips when he finally pulls out.

“Are you,” he tries to ask, before he can even really speak, “was that-–”

His heart is pounding.

“God,” Bram says, and Simon can’t move, just watches Bram’s hand on himself, quick and frantic, like he–like it was really good for him, too, and he just has to-–

“Can I?” Simon asks, because god, he wants to, and Bram lets him, lets Simon touch him and love him and take him apart with his own hands. After, when Bram is sweaty and breathing hard, streaked with moonlight, Simon can’t stop kissing him, slow and sweet–-his mouth, his chest, the slim muscles of his arms, the dip of his waist. 

“Hey,” Bram says, and tugs him back up. Simon leans into the feeling of it, Bram’s hands cupped around him. An anchor.

“That was-–” Bram says, and stops, and looks at him. When he smiles, it’s slow and thrilled,  _revelatory_ , and he doesn’t need to say the rest of it. That grin, and Simon’s heart rolls over for him, just like it always does. 


	2. College

It hits Bram hard every time, seeing Simon again. You’d think he’d be used to it, three years later, the pattern of separation and reunion having become a settled, predicable thing. They both agreed a long time ago that they wouldn’t spend college holed up in their dorm rooms longing for each other; that they’d live as fully as they could, even when they had to be apart. 

It was when Thanksgiving break had rolled around, freshman year, and seeing each other again had knocked some kind of truth loose inside them, enough for them to admit that it wasn’t working, that they spent nights Skyping while other kids in their dorms were going out for midnight Chinese food and studying in distracted, laughing clumps. 

“I don’t want less of you,” Simon had said, “but I can’t just have this–half-version,” and Bram knew what he meant. This time, he got it. 

Since then, they’ve had rules. One email a week, long and full of feeling, some sweetly companionable, some edged with rough need. A scant handful of visits a year, split between the two of them, long limbs tangled in dorm bunks. And besides that, distance enough for them to both live their lives without feeling the constant lingering presence of the other: the wait for a text, the scheduled phone calls. 

Bram doesn’t want anything except excitement and joy, for Simon, wants “living” to mean whatever it needs to for him. Sometimes he thinks he should be more worried, more jealous. His friends are always asking him what the _deal_ is, with Simon. 

_This_ is the deal, Bram thinks, watching Simon walk towards him across the busy sidewalk outside the terminal, through the crisping late November air. The deal is Simon’s hair, its new length, the curling desire in Bram’s stomach at the way a few pieces fall across his familiar, beloved face. The deal is the way that face lights up when he spots Bram’s car, the quickening of his steps, how he hitches his bag eagerly up his shoulder. 

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” Simon says, opening the door, but delight is threading through his voice. Bram tastes it, when he kisses him. 

“You know I’m always going to come get you,” Bram says, tucking that strand of hair behind Simon’s ear. He lets his hand linger there, and Simon turns his face, kisses his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus college!Simon headcanon, and [bonus song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfdfcvC8yQo).


	3. Last Days of School

There are still a few more weeks of school until graduation, and even if they feel pretty pointless--teachers have given up, for the most part, and keep assigning them things like “write a letter to your future self about your goals for college”--Simon’s actually kind of glad.

Part of it is the way everything is starting to look all golden and sweet in the last few weeks, the rougher parts of school worn down to something familiar and friendly. He sits down at the table at lunch and thinks about how it’s one of the last few times he’ll wedge his knees under the too-small tabletop, and even the gum stuck to the underside feels nostalgic instead of gross.

“That’s disgusting,” Leah says when he points it out, but Simon saw her stop in the middle of the empty hall the other day and take a picture of it, so, like, she has no room to talk. 

Simon can’t even make fun of her for it, too, because he _gets_ it--the way the light shines across the linoleum, the miles of cool metal locker. This is a place he knows, and he’s about to leave it for a place he doesn’t know at all, and--

“Lost in thought?” Bram asks, coming up behind him, and Simon turns to look at him, and yeah, this is the other reason he’s not mad about the last few weeks of school. 

“Just thinking about this hallway,” Simon admits, and Bram laughs. The day just ended, and there are still kids trailing through it, talking in clumps, running to get out the door.

“I used to take the long way to like half my classes so I’d pass by your locker,” Bram says, tapping it with two fingers. He looks down at the floor, then back up at Simon, and grins. 

“I was late to Algebra 2 basically every day sophomore year,” Bram says. “That classroom was like all the way on the other end of the building, and I had chem before it which was essentially next door to it, and I’d run out early and walk all the way over here, just to catch a glimpse of you. It was ridiculous.”

Bram runs a hand over the back of his neck and laughs, softly. 

“I was, uh,” he says. “I guess I was pretty gone on you, even then.”

Sometimes it hurts, when Simon thinks about all the time he missed with Bram, in all the ways and for all the reasons. But sometimes it feels the same way he’s felt every time he’s walked into this familiar old building lately--the ache of missing all mixed up with the joy of having, like they’re inseparable. It would be too much work to untangle them, he thinks. It’s not really worth trying. 

“That long?” Simon asks, and Bram nods. 

“I was such a nerd, though,” Simon says, thinking back to sophomore year. “Those glasses! All my collared shirts, the khakis. What did you even--”

“It was the way you laughed,” Bram says, quietly. He’s looking right at Simon. 

“I told you once that when you’re that happy, there’s nothing else worth looking at,” he says, and Simon--yeah, he knows. He kept that email. He reads that one a lot. 

“It was true then, too,” Bram is saying. “I used to look forward to coming to school just to see you, like it was a treat I got every day. I don’t know. I would walk by you and let myself think about what it would be like to kiss you right here. This sounds insane, I sound like a stalker--”

“Do it,” Simon says. “Kiss me.” 

There’s the slam of a locker near them, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum and the echoing snippets of ten different conversations. They don’t--they’ve stuck to small things, so far. The brush of Bram’s fingers against his shoulder as he passes Simon on his way to his seat in English. Knees, knocking under a lunch table. 

Bram leans in and kisses Simon like it’s easy. One hand is flat against the lockers behind them, and his other hand wraps around Simon’s side and holds to him, digs in. It’s honeyed and golden, like everything’s been, these past few weeks. Too achingly sweet to talk about, too rich. 

“Still can’t really believe this is happening,” Bram says, softly, against Simon’s mouth.

It’s surprising, Simon thinks, how you can be in a place for so long and not really know the ways you love it until the very end. He reaches out for Bram, slips fingers through his belt loops and tugs him closer. 

“Kiss me again,” Simon says, and Bram gives him what he wants.


End file.
